


dido's lament (when i am laid in earth)

by morningsound15



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Cheating, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Violence, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, a little Harry/Ginny, all canon compliant, and Bill/Fleur, and kind of, basically this only ignores the epilogue of the 7th book, but not really, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: There are too many ghosts, too many memories, too many stories leeching out of these walls.Hermione doesn’t know if they made the right decision in returning.But with Ginny’s arm around her shoulders and Neville’s blanket draped across her, with the warmth of the fire and two of her greatest friends burning some feeling back into her extremities, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she might survive.**OR: Hermione, post-Battle of Hogwarts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not going to update on any kind of schedule. I’m sorry in advance. I wrote the first two chapters in a feverish dash in 2 days and then have been toiling on the rest ever since.

____________________

_Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me,_   
_On thy bosom let me rest,_   
_More I would, but Death invades me;_   
_Death is now a welcome guest._

_When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create_   
_No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;_   
_Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate._   
_Remember me, but ah! forget my fate._

____________________

Once the Battle of Hogwarts is over, Hermione returns to school. Not right away, obviously, and not all at once. But slowly. Eventually.

It takes months of effort to rebuild the destruction wrought so ruthlessly on the castle, and longer still for the traumatized survivors of this Great War to feel comfortable returning to the one building that was meant to keep them safe during their all-too-short adolescence.

McGonagall looks older than she’s ever looked — the war has not been kind to her — but still she stands at the front of the crowd of hundreds of volunteers from all over the country, stone-faced and serious, and directs them with all the precision of the world’s most effective general. There’s a weariness to the way she moves that hadn’t been there years ago, like some permanent crippling injury done to her soul has left her irrevocably changed. But still, the determination and the fire behind her eyes are things that have not faltered, have not wavered, not in all the time Hermione has known her.

It takes months of Charms work, months of clean-up crews, months of scrubbing blood out of stone walls, months of clearing away rubble, of repairing torn and burnt paintings, sewing together torn and tattered tapestries. Months of replanting the grounds, Hagrid quietly and mournfully coaxing animals and creatures back to the Forbidden Forest, whispering to the plants in the dead of night until they finally take root, sprouting tall from soil that a few short months ago had been charred and littered with remains.

But once the Battle of Hogwarts is over, once the dust has settled, once the dead have been buried and the loses have been mourned, once the seasons change from summer to autumn, Hermione goes back to school.

It’s strange, being at Hogwarts without Harry and Ron — the two most constant and significant figures in her life for the past eight years. Being at Hogwarts without her two greatest friends is strange, and not easy for her to adapt to. She’s never experienced life in the castle without them. Never awoken early in the morning to the thought that they are not there with her, slumbering only a few rooms away. Never entered the Great Hall glancing for their familiar forms only to be sorely disappointed moments later when they do not appear from within the crowd.

It’s a hard adjustment, unusual and strange. It puts her off-balance, makes her feel wobbly on her feet and nervous and lonely (truly, properly _alone_ ) for the first time in recent memory.

But Ginny and Luna help remarkably.

Hermione feels a connection to these two women, a comradery born of battlefields and blood and violence and tragedy. Luna, who wrapped Hermione up in her arms every night when they were recovering together at Shell Cottage. Luna, who made the hours feel bearable by whispering stories of fantastically impossible magical creatures into Hermione’s ear until she drifted off to sleep. Luna, who would brush a dry cloth over Hermione’s brow when she awoke in the dead of night shaking in a cold, miserable sweat. Luna, who watched over her with quiet eyes, never discussing the vulnerabilities Hermione unwittingly revealed to her in the midst of those bewitching, endless hours. Luna, who despite all the odds has become something of a trusted advisor, a confidant in a way Harry and Ron have never been.

And then there’s Ginny, who has (somewhat unexpectedly) become Hermione’s most valuable companion in the weeks following the Battle. Ginny, who refused to leave her side even when Harry and Ron started to drift away from her (from them both). With Harry off in his own self-imposed solitary and tormented isolation, and with Hermione’s once-potential romantic relationship with Ron fizzling to a disappointing conclusion with very little fanfare, Hermione and Ginny find each other in an unanticipated but not unwelcome mutually-beneficial companionship.

Hermione has never had girlfriends before. Not in the traditional, _talk-about-boys-and-braid-each-other’s-hair_ way, that is. She’s had female friends before, certainly. Ginny has always been a stable, solid measure of support during their long summers together at the Burrow. Her roommates, while not exactly _friends_ of hers, were certainly nothing like enemies. She even counts among her friends the few members of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff she had managed to befriend during her third-year study groups, when Ron and (a more reluctant) Harry had seemingly written her off for good. But she’s never had friends like Ginny and Luna, before. Not the way they are now. Nothing even comes close. And in the wake of her faltering relationship with Ron, in the wake of Harry’s current unwillingness to reach out to his peers for help (except Ginny, because he always seems to make an exception for Ginny), Hermione finds that she leans on the shoulders of these two strong, powerful women more than she would have expected.

She finds she does not mind in the least.

____________________

On her first night back in the dorms, Hermione can’t sleep. Her bed is too warm, too comfortable, too unknown to her. After so many months sleeping outside in tents, sleeping on the ground, sleeping in a new forest or town every-other-night, the notion of a regular, soft, luxurious place to sleep is daunting. It sets her teeth on edge.

When she used to sleep in these beds, all those many years ago (years that now feel like lifetimes), she used to like to draw the curtains entirely closed around herself. It provided her with at least the façade of privacy in a room she shared with 4 other girls. She always enjoyed the comforting embrace of it, the way she could be simultaneously within and without. Plus, for most of her adolescence (before situation demanded she outgrow this particularly cumbersome trait) she was unable to sleep unless she was submerged in total darkness.

But when she draws the curtains around her bed tonight, instead of the expected calm, she instead feels a wave of panic overtake her. The feeling of being enclosed and encircled used to provide her comfort. But it’s stifling, now. It closes in on her and makes her feel like she can’t breathe and she closes her eyes and _tries_ to relax but all she can see is darkness and all she can feel are the thick curtains pushing in on her, suffocating her, and the air is musty and stifling and too hot and she can hear the echoes of explosions in her ears, can hear the screams of her classmates, the wails of their ghosts calling from deep within the castle, and she—

She rips the curtains away from her bed and sits up, panting, feeling cold and sweaty and out-of-place and sick.

But then she looks around the room she’s in, and she feels somehow worse.

Lavender’s bed: empty. Parvati’s bed: empty. Emmeline and Abigail’s beds: empty.

Hermione is the only surviving inhabitant of her dorm to return. No one else — none of those girls she spent 6 years growing up with and sleeping next to — has come back. Lavender, she knows, is still in St. Mungo’s, recovering from Greyback’s attack. Parvati had flat-out refused to step foot in the castle ever again. She hasn’t heard any news about Emmeline since she left for Christmas break the year Hermione was on the run. As a Muggleborn student, she hadn’t been able to come back to school at the start of the new term without risking her own life. Hermione doesn’t know what became of her, and hadn’t really thought, before now, to look into the matter. Wherever she may be, Hermione hopes that Emmeline is safe.

Abigail had not made it out of the Battle alive.

She looks out at the sea of empty beds — and tries to grapple with the notion that this is the first time she’ll be sleeping in a room by herself in nearly a year — and Hermione’s stomach turns over.

She can’t stay here.

She can’t.

 

 

She really should be more surprised, she thinks when she stumbles her way down the staircase leading to the girls’ dorms and discovers that she isn’t the only one who decided to seek solace in front of the Common Room fire. She really should be more surprised. But in the end, the sight that greets her just makes her feel _warm_.

Ginny’s head rises up from its perch on Neville’s shoulder and she smiles at Hermione in a way that leaves Hermione feeling comfortingly _seen_. Seen and understood and welcome, all at once. She looks at Hermione like she _understands_. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, and there’s no accusation behind her words, no pitying consolation. Hermione nods wordlessly, and Ginny smiles again. “Us either.” She pats the spot next to her on the couch, an open invitation for Hermione to join her, and she does so at once.

Hermione sinks into the plush red cushions and immediately curls into Ginny’s side. They must make a strange tableau: woman lying on woman lying on man. But Hermione barely has a moment to consider her own discomfort before Ginny is tossing a thick, heavy blanket over her shivering form and Hermione is sinking further into the feeling.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and Ginny’s only response is simply to slip an arm around her shoulders.

“It’s too weird, being back here,” Neville says from the other end of the couch, his eyes focused and unblinking on the crackling fire in front of them. “I don’t know if we should have come back.”

“I don’t know either,” Hermione agrees quietly. There are too many ghosts, here. And she isn’t talking about the _House_ ghosts, the ones of Nick and the Friar and the Grey Lady. She means the invisible ghosts, the lingering impressions of classmates they have loved and lost. The loveseat over by the side of the room that Lavender used to curl up on. The table in the library where Hermione had once coached Seamus through his Transfiguration homework. The Quidditch pitch, where she had once cheered on Harry and Fred and George and Ron and Angelina and Oliver…

There are too many ghosts, too many memories, too many stories leeching out of these walls.

Hermione doesn’t know if they made the right decision in returning.

But with Ginny’s arm around her shoulders and Neville’s blanket draped across her, with the warmth of the fire and two of her greatest friends burning some feeling back into her extremities, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she might survive.

____________________

She graduates on-time with Ginny and Luna’s year — and the few students, like Neville, from her own who had wanted to return to school to see their education through — and it is… less climactic than she imagined it would be. She always imagined her graduation from Hogwarts would be this profound, lasting moment in her life. She always imagined it would mark some sort of significant shift in her demeanour, in her future, in her thoughts, in her dreams and her worldview. She always thought it would feel like the cumulative efforts of all of her sleepless nights and tireless hours of studying finally paying off in one single, gratifying conclusion. She always imagined it would be _more_.

In reality, her graduation is uneventful and unremarkable. Graduating doesn’t mark a shift in her, doesn’t signify the threshold between childhood and adulthood. Not like she once thought it might. She lost any remaining semblance of her childhood long ago; has been a woman fully-grown for going on two years now, despite what wizarding law might or might not say regarding her age.

It matters that she graduates because it matters to her that her degree has finally been completed, that this is one more thing she can check off of the ridiculous ‘ _Life To-Do List’_ that she’s kept active and running since she was 10 years-old.

(Like anything on that list matters, now, in the wake of all she’s faced. Death and hunger and fear and torture and degradation and humiliation and rebirth and triumph. Like any of her foolish, naïve milestones matter, now.)

Her graduation matters, if only because it allows her to feel centred and grounded. After her year of living in the wilderness, of living on-the-run from dark forces out for her head and her body and her blood, the simplicity of school work, the _control_ involved in once again taking charge of her own life and her own studies… ironically, there’s a thrilling sort of freedom she feels in its mundane constraint.

But beyond that, the event itself is unremarkable.

It is only when she _does_ finally graduate, only when she is standing in her empty dorm room with her degree (metaphorically) in-hand, that Hermione realizes she has _no idea_ what she wants to do with her life. A career in the Ministry seems apt and right up her alley — she’s always been ridiculously hard-working and, in general, whole-heartedly willing to act as a public servant for the betterment of society. She’s never harboured Harry’s reservations towards authority (particularly governmental authority), never struggled, as Ron so often does, with working in less-prestigious fields in order to build herself a solid foundation. And a Ministry job is almost expected of her. Practically pre-destined, even. It seems to be the thing she has been building towards for nearly a decade. But Hermione can’t help the revulsion she feels at the mere thought of that sort of existence. She shrinks away from the notion of a 9 to 5 desk job so _soon_ after… after everything.

(Surely there must be more to life than slaving away as a bureaucratic grunt for a government only just now beginning to shake off its inherent prejudice and corruption. Surely she must have other options besides paperwork and meetings and the continued rigidity of fixed schedules and London office work. Surely there must be something else she can do besides work for the organization that has, on several occasions, tried to hurt/imprison/kill her and her closest friends.)

Currently knee-deep within this existential crisis, Hermione sits down heavily upon the bed she occupied for 7 years (on and off) and stares, unblinking, down at her fully-packed trunk. She feels as if she’s the last one left in the entire tower. All the others must have already begun to head for the train. It’s about time for that. In fact, Hermione thinks that if she doesn’t leave soon, she’s likely to miss it.

But she does not move. Instead, she sits motionless on her old bed and stares down at her belongings as her mind dashes off at a million kilometres a second. She contemplates her own future and how her life even _now_ feels as if it’s slipping away from her. She thinks about how she’s lacked control for _so long_ now, has been beholden to the whims and the needs of others for nearly her entire life, and how extraordinarily unfair that all is. She thinks about how she’s sitting here, a woman almost in her twenties, with a whole world of new responsibilities staring her down and how is she meant to _deal_ with all of this, with everything that life entails, when she’s never been taught _how_ , when she can’t even—

A hand on her arm pulls her out of her reverie. Hermione starts, her hand moving automatically to the wand in her pocket. She blinks quickly a few times, realizing a little belatedly that her vision has gone a little blurry with the fog of unshed tears. When she finally manages to look up, Ginny is crouched in front of her, her brow furrowed and her eyes worried. “Hermione?” she asks quietly. “Are you alright?”

Hermione nods around a smile that doesn’t feel genuine. “Fine,” she says, though she knows it doesn’t sound like the truth. The look Ginny levels her way confirms as much. Hermione sighs quietly and shakes her head, closing her eyes and dipping her chin so low that it brushes the top of her sternum. “I just…” she says in a voice that shakes, admitting softly, “I don’t know what we _do_ , now. I don’t know where we go from here. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever… _not_ had a plan for something.”

But Ginny — sweet, marvellous, lovely Ginny — just squeezes her hand tightly until Hermione finally looks back up at her. “You want to know what to do next?” she asks, and Hermione shakes her head, her expression almost desperate. “We keep fighting,” Ginny says, with all the strength of the warrior she has become. “The War might be won, but there are still battles we have to finish; fights we have to see through.” She squeezes Hermione’s hand again, and Hermione squeezes back. “So we get on that train, and we get to work. We keep fighting. We keep fighting until there’s nothing left to fight against, and only things left to fight for.” She presses a swift kiss to the back of Hermione’s hand, and Hermione feels herself warm at the gesture. “We keep fighting,” she repeats, her voice soft enough to almost be mistaken for a whisper.

She allows Ginny to help her to her feet as something bright, something that feels almost like _hope_ , expands in Hermione’s chest.

____________________

The day Hermione realizes that she has to leave her childhood home is one of the most surreal of her life.

It takes her a while after she graduates — a few months, really — but she slowly comes to realize that, however noble their intentions, her parents will _never_ understand what has happened to her in the past two years. They’ll never understand what she went through, the things she saw, the people she fought with, the lives she took, the deaths for which she’s responsible. They will never understand the nightmares that haunt her in the dead of the night, the faces of lost friends she sees whenever she closes her eyes, the way she flinches away from women on the street with dark, curly hair. They’ll never understand the way her hands tremble sometimes without her wanting them to, or the way her bones creak in her body whenever it storms, or the fire that shoots through her muscles without warning on some of her harder days, making them seize up, making her crumble to the ground. They’ll never understand.

And that forges an incomprehensible impasse between them which, Hermione thinks, will never truly be surmountable.

It had been hard, restoring their memories. Not in terms of magical difficulty — the spell was a relatively easy one to reverse, all things considered — but… it had been emotionally draining. They were furious with her, of course. Furious she had erased herself from their lives. Furious she had sent them off to Australia. Furious she had gone off and risked her life in a war they had never even heard of. Furious that they weren’t able to keep her safe. Furious of the fact that, had she died in the Battle, or even in the larger War, they never would have known; never would have gotten the chance to mourn her; never would have remembered her life or her laughter or her love.

(Maybe it isn’t fair to say that they had been furious. Maybe a more sympathetic description would have been ‘terrified’.)

But it had been hard getting them back. It had been harder still to try to explain everything that had happened to her over the past year and a half, hard to explain to them how much she had changed, how different she was, how nothing was ever going to be the same.

Because she _had_ changed. She had changed pretty remarkably over the past few months, in ways that confused even her.

The last time Hermione’s parents had seen her she had been their daughter, but now… now, a stranger stands in their living room. A strange woman, older and gaunter than they’d ever seen their little girl. Older and haunted by memories and pain and tragedy and war. A woman who wears scars visibly on her body and less-visibly on her soul. A woman who carries anguish in her steps; who stares off into the distance at odd times during the day; a woman who looks as if she has the entire weight of the world on her exhausted, bedraggled mind. A woman who looks at them with such a dark, ancient _knowing_ in her eyes that it shakes the very foundation of their happy family home.

They hadn’t understood why she wanted to go back to school, to finish her education. Hadn’t wanted to let her out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time, really, after losing her for a year. They hadn’t understood why she wanted to go back to a world that had nearly destroyed itself, that had nearly destroyed her. They couldn’t understand the way the magic pulled to her, called to her, demanded her attention. But in the end, they let her go. She was a woman fully-grown, after all. There wasn’t much they could do to stop her.

(She thinks she scares them. They don’t say as much — would never dream of saying as much — but she catches little flashes of it in her mother’s eyes, in her father’s brow. She scares them, and that deeply unsettles her.)

But when she returns from her final year at Hogwarts, she returns to a home that no longer feels like her own, to parents who no longer feel like the authority figures meant to love her and keep her safe. She returns to a familiar space as an unfamiliar person, and it doesn’t take her long to realize that the two are incongruous. Like trying to force a square peg through a round hole, Hermione is undeniably an outside figure trying to stick herself somewhere she no longer belongs.

It doesn’t take her long to realize she can’t stay.

Her parents will never understand. They will never know the truths of the Great War. They will never know the costs. Hermione will never tell them about the new scars on her body, what effects Bellatrix’s prolonged and savage torture left on her mind. She will never tell them how she wakes up most nights in a cold sweat, shivering and with the taste of her own blood on her tongue. She will never tell them how it felt to have her school — her safe haven, the one place she could finally and fully be herself — destroyed in front of her eyes. Will never say how agonizing it was to bury her classmates, her friends. Will never express the emotional toll of returning to the home of her very worst nightmares, of forcing herself to stay and conquer it and prove that she can be stronger than her demons.

She will never tell them. She would never _be able_ to tell them. They could never understand.

When she tells them she wants to move out, they look at her with such sadness, such grief, such _pity_ , that it makes her want to curse everything around her into oblivion.

But they don’t try and stop her.

They let her go.

____________________

“You could come to the Burrow,” Ginny offers one night, over a quiet dinner in some tiny East-London café. They meet every so often in the city, for meals or shopping or a quiet cuppa. Sometimes Hermione brings Neville, and sometimes Ginny brings Luna. But more often than not it’s just the two of them.

Hermione likes these little outings. She likes the regularity of them, the familiarity of them. She likes Apparating into London, likes walking through the streets, likes blending into the crowd — just another young woman, invisible amongst the throngs. She likes the anonymity of the city, likes the fact that she doesn’t run the risk of seeing former classmates or professors or enemies or comrades-in-arms. She thinks Ginny likes these hours they spend together for the same reasons.

Hermione shakes her head as she wraps her hands around the mug of coffee in front of her. (She got used to drinking coffee, out on the run. There was something more satisfying about brewing it over a fire than warming a kettle of tea. It’s a taste she’s acquired, and even now she doesn’t quite know how to shake it.) “I can’t,” she says softly. “I couldn’t imagine giving your mum one more kid to worry about.”

“We’re hardly _kids_ , Hermione,” Ginny reasons, and Hermione has to admit that that’s at least true. “Besides, I think…” Something pulls at the corner of Ginny’s mouth (a frown that almost stops her from speaking), but she soldiers on. “I don’t think she’d mind. She likes taking care of people. Doesn’t know what to do when she doesn’t have mouths to feed and kids to scold. And… well, nearly everyone’s gone, now. It’s just me and Ron left.”

Hermione doesn’t know how to tell her that that’s _precisely_ the reason she can’t stay with them. She can’t go back to being coddled and looked after and taken care of and mothered. She can’t face Mrs. Weasley every single day knowing the price that she paid — that their entire _family_ paid — for this fight. She can’t look that lovely, kind, fierce woman in the eye knowing that she might have had a hand in her son’s death. She can’t walk into that house — that house that once was such a defining part of her childhood, of the memories of youth and adolescence — without being reminded of _everything that was_ and _everything that could have been._ She can’t walk around in those rooms pretending like she doesn’t hear Fred’s laughter in every echo, like she doesn’t see Bill’s bright and smiling face, scar-free and youthful, in every room. She can’t go back there, can’t face that past she lost, the innocence of Before. She can’t look at Ron without feeling heartbroken and sad and guilty, knowing that once upon a time they might have had a shot at _Something Better Together,_ but at this point it’s starting to feel more and more like they’ve already missed their chance.

She doesn’t know how to explain any of that to Ginny. But when she looks up and meets the younger woman’s gaze, Ginny has this look on her face that makes Hermione think she understands, at least in part, what Hermione might be feeling.

When she turns down the offer once more, with an air of finality, Ginny doesn’t push her. And she never brings it up again.

____________________

She doesn’t know what makes her decide to leave her parents’ house with no lease set up, with nowhere to stay, and with very few of her clothes and personal possessions. And she _definitely_ doesn’t know _what_ , exactly, compels her to knock on the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place with a jacket thrown over her shoulders and suitcase in hand.

But here she is, standing on the steps outside the familiar home, knocking three times in quick succession.

Harry pulls the door open and immediately blinks at her in surprise. His hair is tousled and messy, his eyes a little unfocused behind his glasses. He definitely hadn’t been expecting her but he doesn’t seem angry to see her. So, that’s comforting.

Hermione’s stomach clenches a little at the realization that this is the first time they’ve seen each other in just about a year.

“Hermione!” he exclaims, wiping his hands off on a towel he pulls from his back pocket. (Had he been shaving? Cooking? She has no idea.) “This is a surprise. Are you looking for Ginny? She’s not supposed to get here until—” His eyes flick down and catch sight of the trunk at her feet. “Oh,” he says softly, like a breath of air.

She tries to smile at him. “Hi, Harry,” she says, the volume of her own voice low, matching his. “Can I come inside?”

He steps aside, pushing the door open behind him in order to let her pass.

 

 

“You can stay,” he says later, handing her a cup of coffee she hadn’t asked for (but had desperately wanted). “You can stay as long as you like.”

“It won’t be long,” she promises, her fingers twitching around the handle of the mug nervously. “I just… I couldn’t bear living at home any longer. I just need somewhere to stay until I can… get a job and-and figure things out, and—”

“Hermione,” he cuts her off quickly. “I promise, I don’t mind. You can stay as long as you like. You’ll always have a place, here. You know that.”

She smiles at him, and it’s the first real smile she’s been able to produce in a while. “Thank you,” she says sincerely, her voice heavy with some emotion she doesn’t currently want to decipher.

They look at each other for a few long moments, and it’s striking how different it all feels. It isn’t _uncomfortable_ — it could never be uncomfortable between them, not with their history and everything they’ve meant to each other for so long — but it’s… definitely different. There’s more silence between them, now. But also more understanding. They haven’t seen each other in nearly a year, and yet there’s no sort of animosity between them, no sort of begrudging anger, no hurt feelings of being ignored or not prioritized.

(Hermione remembers the very first time she was in this house, the summer before their fifth year, when Dumbledore had made them swear not to reveal anything about their lives or their location to Harry. She remembers his anger, the look of betrayal he had levelled at her; remembers how he had thrown accusations her way; remembers how alone he had felt, how ignored, how abandoned. She remembers how crushing it was, to know that she had caused him such hurt by omission. She remembers that time, and is grateful that some things, at least, have changed about their interactions.)

Hermione thinks that she should hug him. Harry quite looks like he could do with a hug. But she stays in her seat, unwilling to broach the space between them in order to offer some sort of physical comfort. She wants to hug him, but instead she remains in her place.

(She’s not sure how the war has affected him. They haven’t seen each other in a year, and she isn’t sure how he would react to something like that. _She_ , for her part, can barely stomach any sort of physicality; every hug feels like it’s crushing her, every unexpected touch burns through her. Her skin crawls at the notion of sleeping next to someone, of letting herself be so vulnerable in someone else’s company.)

(She wonders if she’ll ever get over it.)

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to your graduation,” Harry says quietly, his eyes downcast and his hands folded in his lap.

Hermione blinks, startled from her musings. She immediately shakes her head though she knows he can’t see her. “That doesn’t matter. You’ve been busy.”

“I could have made the trip.”

“I’m not angry with you, Harry. I understand why you didn’t come.” And she does. She _does_ understand. She knows what it was like for him, walking away from Hogwarts all those many months ago. She remembers the look in his eye when he stared up at the castle’s burned, broken, crushed shell. She stood and watched as the school he once loved — the only place he had ever felt at home — was forever changed in his mind, moulded instead into some ghastly and nightmarish ground, covered in the blood of innocents and innocence.

He looks at her now, his eyes shining and dark behind his glasses. He looks impossibly old, lit like this from below by the one lone, solitary candle that burns between them. There’s a deep sadness to the curve of his shoulders and the tightness of his eyes that makes Hermione practically ache for the boy she once knew. “I don’t know how you did it,” he says quietly, and her eyebrows draw together just slightly in confusion. “I don’t know how you went back there. I don’t know how you spent a-a year back in that castle without…” He trails off.

Hermione lays a hand gently on top of his. “I almost went mad,” she admits softly. “I was so close to going mad, so many times. I almost left… maybe a dozen times, in my first two weeks.”

“Why did you stay?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t honestly know. To see it through, maybe. To prove to myself that I _could_ stay. For… for my parents. For Ginny and Neville and Luna. For… for all the people who never got a chance to…” Harry squeezes her hand tightly and Hermione has to swallow a few times around the thick lump in her throat. She blinks rapidly, trying to ward off tears she does not want to shed. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, using her free hand to wipe at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to get so emotional.”

When she meets Harry’s gaze next he’s smiling at her in that soft, quiet way that he used to. He smiles at her like they’re 15 and only just coming to terms with the fact that the world is a harsh, terrible, and cruel place. He smiles at her and she feels like smiling back.

“I’m glad you’re here, Hermione,” he says, and she feels a little puff of relief at the confirmation. She hadn’t been sure her presence was welcome, hadn’t been sure if she was bringing up memories he might otherwise have wanted to bury. “I’m really, _really_ glad you’re here.”

“Me too, Harry. Me too.”

____________________

With two of them living in the house instead of one (and with Ginny spending more and more of her nights in Harry’s bed, too), they make quick work of redecorating Grimmauld Place. Where before, under the guidance of Mrs. Weasley, they had made great efforts to clean the house and make it somewhat-habitable while still keeping the basic look and structure of the rooms the same, now they practically tear it to shreds. There’s nothing in this house that either of them wants to keep, nothing in this house but memories and loss and tragedy. Nights spent eavesdropping on the Order, cramped rooms and dusty darkness, Sirius’ beleaguered footsteps trudging up and down the stairs day in and day out, weeks spent hiding out before Hermione had accidentally brought Yaxley back into their safe little world…

There’s nothing about this house with its poisoned atmosphere and sour décor that they want to keep, so they completely tear it apart. They repaint rooms, air out ratty carpets, and throw old furniture out by the curb with barely a second glance. Some of the nicer china Harry gives to Mrs. Weasley, over her polite (and loud) protestations. Any items that can be safely disposed of (without risking exposing the Muggle population to injury or curses) are thrown away, donated, or sold. Everything else, Harry hands over to the Ministry. Walls covered by paintings and tapestries that can’t be removed by magic are simply torn down. Hermione takes a sledgehammer (a tool too unsophisticated for any wizard to think of using) to the one wall on the main floor, the one covered by that hideous tapestry of the entire Black family (minus the burned-out blood traitors, of course). She accidentally hits a pipe in her enthusiasm and floods nearly the entire first floor of the house, but Harry, rather than being angry, just laughs at her, soaked as she is, and hands her a towel before rolling up his own sleeves and getting to work. They’re without water for three days, but she thinks it’s worth it.

Harry looks happier with each passing week. He’s well in the middle of his Auror training by now, so most days Hermione spends by herself in the small house, repainting walls and tearing down old decorations, throwing beds into the street and donating old clothes and bedding (after dutifully checking to make sure nothing has been cursed, of course).

Truthfully, they don’t have much to get rid of. The best treasures in the house had been sold off years ago, pilfered by Mundungus after Sirius’ death. Much of the house had been ravaged and demolished — pillows torn asunder, furniture tipped over, wardrobes destroyed — no doubt during the Death Eaters’ raid. Harry had only done the bare minimum in making the space habitable again when he moved in, but that mostly entailed throwing away broken glass and sweeping up the floors. He had done nothing to replace broken and lost furniture, to redecorate old bedrooms, to dispose of dark objects and rude paintings, to restock the kitchen shelves with glassware, plates, and the like.

That’s where Hermione comes in.

She’s glad for the work, glad for the purpose. It gives her something to do, something that feels important, something that feels productive and like it matters. She’s never been much of a handyman, never been particularly adept at using her hands to build things. She’s never been particularly artistic, nor particularly good at housekeeping spells. But with Harry by her side she learns. And they work together through long summer afternoons, with the door propped open to urge the dust out. And they sweat in the heat, they sweat through the grime, but they laugh, occasionally. And it feels good.

Ginny shops for plates and silverware, for blankets and rugs and throw pillows. She picks out lamps, tables, vases and flowers and coasters and a million other tiny things Harry and Hermione would never think of needing. She arranges them all around the house and smacks Harry’s hand away whenever he tries to move something. “You’ll leave that alone, Harry Potter,” she warns him when he tries re-arranging the pictures above the mantle, “if you know what’s good for you.” (She acts more and more like her mother every day; at least where housekeeping tasks are concerned. Instead of the anger and mortification she might once have felt, Hermione thinks that now she might almost be flattered by the comparison.)

Luna shows up one day with her smocks, dressed in her paint-splattered trousers, her beaten-up trainers. She ties her hair up and sets to work painting the fine details along the trim in the kitchen, decorative flowers around the mirror in the first floor bathroom, bright constellations and peaceful depictions of the sky on the ceilings of several of the bedrooms. And after quiet consultation with Hermione and a quiet nod of approval from Harry, she begins the long, arduous task of re-creating a tree similar to the one that used to hold portraits of the Black family. But this time, the pictures are different. The faces Luna paints on the wall are those of their lost friends and allies, those people they loved (and continue to love) and do not want to forget. Sirius and Mad Eye and Dumbledore and Fred and Tonks and Remus and even Snape. Poor young Collin Creevy, who never should have been at the Battle in the first place. Dobby and Hedwig and Buckbeak, who helped them so much and who were lost too soon. James and Lily Potter, Ariana Dumbledore, Ted Tonks, Regulus Black, Credric. (She continues the painting for years afterward, always adding to it as they lose more friends. Her own little tribute to the fallen.)

Neville provides them with more house-warming plants than they can keep track of, despite Harry’s vehement warnings that he’s likely to kill any plant in the house that requires any kind of regular watering. Neville just laughs and entrusts Hermione with the schedule.

Even Ron comes by a few times, lends his hands to the quiet work of building cabinets, constructing bed frames, moving mattresses and bookshelves between rooms. He never stays for long, and he never talks much during his visits, but he passes Hermione in the halls and gives her a small smile, and she feels good about that, too.

____________________

“Kingsley contacted me the other day.” Harry says one morning over breakfast.

“Oh?” Hermione’s only really half-listening as she squints at the morning’s _Prophet_. Her eyesight doesn’t seem to be as good as it once was. She may have to look into getting glasses, soon. (Gods, she feels old. She’s only just approaching 20, but she might need _reading glasses_ soon.) “About your training? Or just to see how you’re doing?” she asks, because why else would the Minster for Magic approach Harry Potter except to talk about his Auror training? And why else would Kingsley Shacklebolt approach Harry except to check up on an old friend?

“Neither, actually.” That makes Hermione pause. “He… well, it seems the Order have a bit of business still to take care of.”

“And… he wants you to join?”

“No, he knows that my focus is on becoming an Auror, right now.” Hermione frowns, still confused. “He wanted to know if I… if _we_ , really, would be willing to let them use Grimmauld Place as Headquarters, again.”

“Oh.”

Harry swallows, looking nervous. “I told him I had to think about it. We’re still doing renovations and… and things have been going so well, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to… bring all of that back into our lives.”

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s definitely something to consider. But this is your home, Harry. Whatever decision you make is yours, and I’ll support you either way.”

“This is _our home_ , Hermione,” he says like it’s obvious, and something catches in her chest. “I’m not making any decisions about this without you.”

Hermione nods, taking a deep breath in through her nose. “Well… do you want to do it?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “I can’t… I’m worried if I let them, then I’ll… then we’ll _both_ be dragged into it. We won’t exactly be able to ignore the Order’s work if they’re conducting it right in our kitchen.”

Hermione nods at that. “True. We couldn’t ignore it then.” She gives Harry a long, meaningful look. “But do you really _want_ to ignore it? That doesn’t feel like something you’d do.”

Harry has to chuckle. “You’re right. You always are. I _don’t_ want to ignore what they’re doing. I… I want to help, I think. We can’t really be free of all of this… can’t start to move on until the fight’s done, and… the Order’s trying to make sure that that happens.”

“And Knigsley is alright with re-establishing the Order? He’s Minister now, and the Order doesn’t exactly operate within the confines of the government.”

“The Order can do what the Ministry can’t. Kingsley knows that better than anyone.” Harry pauses. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’ll be smaller than before,” he continues, clearly reciting lines he’s been given. “Fewer people. Only those who can be spared. They’re mainly just… hunting down remaining Death Eaters. Making sure none of Voldemort’s followers can begin to recruit an army, again. There aren’t many left, either. Most are dead or in Azkaban. There are only a few high-profile Death Eaters still at large.”

“You sound like you’ve already made up your mind.”

He gives her a small, wry little smile. “Do I?”

She nods. “Yes. But it’s alright; I’ve already made up my mind, too.”

____________________

It’s a little strange, at first. It’s a little bit of an adjustment. The first few meetings are quiet, and sad, especially when Hermione is reminded of all of those familiar faces she will never see again, all those comrades now lost to them — Alastor and Tonks and Remus and Fred and Sirius and God, even _Snape_ (and oh how she still hates him, even after knowing the full history of what he did, even after knowing of Harry’s forgiveness). But in the heart of tragedy, the others find strength.

Their numbers grow.

At first, the only attendees are Kingsley, Arthur, Molly, McGonagall, and Harry and Hermione (though they both maintain adamantly, perhaps foolishly, that they are not _officially_ active Members of the Order). But pretty soon, they’re joined by Neville, and Luna, and Ginny, and Bill and Fleur. Parvati Patil, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas. Other Ministry officials, friends of Bill’s from when he worked at Gringott’s, old classmates of Arthur and Molly’s. A few other Hogwarts professors, when they can manage to sneak away (Flitwick, Sprout, even Trelawney).

They don’t all come at once, nor do they all attend every meeting, but they show up when they can. They are all determined, dedicated fighters. They each have something they are willing to die for. They each have something they are willing to kill for.

(For Hermione, it is peace. For Harry, it is freedom. For Parvati and Dean and Seamus and Neville, their fallen friends. For Molly, her children. For Kingsley, the future.)

Slowly but surely they begin to gather intelligence once again. They have a network of connections and spies that extends far beyond the boundaries of London, far beyond the boundaries of their small country. Charlie has his ties in Romania, Fleur in France, Seamus in Ireland, Bill in Egypt, Kingsley in America. Slowly but surely they begin missions once again. Most of the time, Hermione doesn’t hear from their operatives in the field. She’s only ever made aware of the success or failure of their activities later, much later, when the Order comes together to either mourn or celebrate.

It’s slow, arduous work, but it feels important.

They’re shaving away at the remaining ranks of violence and terrorism and fascism and blood-purity one by one, and it feels like it matters.

____________________

Nearly five months into Harry and Hermione living together, and Ron moves in, too. It makes sense, really — what with he and Harry going through the same training program and working together so closely, what with the resurgence of the Order of the Phoenix and his desire to remain involved, what with Ginny already basically sharing a room with Harry at this point, leaving him the sole child under his parent’s watchful protection… it makes sense, really.

Hermione had thought that it would be strange between them, the silences tense and uncomfortable. She had thought it would make _her_ uncomfortable, to have Ron so near to her when they have barely spoken since their fleeting and ill-fated romance came to a spectacular crashing halt.

But when Ron shows up on their front door with a duffle bag in hand and a shy smile on his face and he says, “Hey, Hermione,” she immediately throws herself into his arms. He drops his bag to the ground and hugs her as fiercely and as tightly as she hugs him.

She had thought it would be strange, and stilted, and awkward, but it turns out to just be brilliant.

____________________

Having Ron and Harry and Ginny all together under one roof again makes Hermione feel light in a way she hasn’t in months, maybe even years. Harry cooks them breakfast every morning, Hermione spends her days making a few finishing touches on the house’s renovations (it’s so much brighter, now; it feels so much bigger without the dark walls and looming, glowering portraits; it feels so much more like _home)_ , and at the end of the day they all come together to talk, or play chess, or read, or listen to the radio, or watch some television (Harry and Hermione insist on putting a set in the living room, and Ron and Ginny stare at it with wide-eyed disbelief for hours and hours on end the first few nights they have it).

It feels _good_. It feels _right_. It feels like something hopeful, like something that might mean _the future is possible,_ and Hermione _knows_ that they’re all so young, still — barely more than teenagers — but they’ve lived through more in the past two years than most have in 30. And Hermione knows that they’re young, knows that the future is fleeting and unpredictable, but… there’s a stability to them, to this little gang of four. There’s a feeling of safety within the walls of this home.

She feels excited for the first time in a good long while.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without a job, without the pressures and motivations of class schedules, without deadlines and assignments and authoritative instruction, Hermione spends most of her time doing… _nothing._ Well, if you can count reading as _nothing_ (which she _certainly_ does not, for it engages the mind and the imagination and is a consistent means of enhancing one’s intelligence, to boot).
> 
> But the point stands that Hermione is, for the first time in nearly a decade, by herself for most of her daily life. 
> 
>  
> 
> Until, of course, Bill and Fleur move in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the warnings start to kick-in. This chapter does discuss past torture/abuse (though nothing is explicit), so read cautiously.
> 
> Also, sorry in advance for any and all shitty French you may encounter in this story. I have a couple years under my belt, but I’m in no way a fluent speaker, so… many apologies.

____________________

The strangest thing about being older, about being a graduate, is the way her relationships have evolved. Specifically, her relationships to those people who used to be her elders, her superiors, those charged with her safety and her protection and the responsibility of knowing where she is and what she’s doing at any/all times. Old Professors (McGonagall, Flitwick) now insist that she address them by their first names. So Professor McGonagall becomes Minerva; Professor Flitwick becomes Filius. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley become Arthur and Molly, no longer simply the parents of her best friends but now also colleagues, co-workers, equals in times of war and peace.

Then there are the classmates, the schoolmates who had never very much liked her (and who she had never very much liked), students who used to just be passing faces in the halls, or names she was vaguely aware of. Hannah Abbott starts attending meetings with Neville, his face always a light shade of pink whenever she sits next to him at the long table they use for planning. She comes to dinner sometimes, too; trades recipes with Hermione like they’re old friends as opposed to practical strangers. Alicia Spinnet and Angeline Johnson begin to greet her with warm hugs whenever they see her; Lee Jordan and Katie Bell send her baked goods, on occasion. Parvati, when she attends meetings, always makes sure to pull Hermione aside and give her soft, whispered updates on Lavender’s condition. Hermione holds her hand when the tears start to flow, and they bow their heads together like sisters at prayer.

Even Fleur becomes more of a person, less of an enigma. It’s strange to think of her now, after their extended stay at Shell Cottage. Fleur had seemed so much older than them, then. So much more maternal, some strange cross between a nurse and a caretaker and a provider. Seeing her walk into Grimmauld Place for the first time, with her hair down and dressed in a set of regular, comfortable clothes, Hermione is struck with the realization that Fleur is, in truth of fact, only 2 years her senior. Fleur is no more a mother than Hermione herself is, and much closer to a child than her mannerisms would indicate.

She presses her hand to Hermione’s cheek almost as soon as she sees her. “‘ermione,” she says softly, her eyes scanning Hermione’s face, her neck, her torso, as if she’s searching for injury, for signs of distress. “You are alright?” Her accent is not so heavy, now. Nothing compared to when they first met, when Fleur was a seventeen-year-old girl fighting for her life in a tournament so dangerous it should never have been allowed to exist; when Hermione was fifteen and confused and angry and jealous, _so jealous_ , of the attention she so effortlessly commanded.

“Yes,” Hermione says back, just as quietly. Her heart is jumping a little in her chest, though she can’t quite figure why. Perhaps because Hermione is not quite so immune to Fleur’s Veela-heritage as she might have once thought (or rather, _hoped_ ). Perhaps because she’s still so unused to physical contact, still shrinks away from every potential embrace, still feels her skin crawl unpleasantly because of every misplaced hand, every touch-gone-awry. (But her skin doesn’t crawl, now.) Perhaps because Fleur is, if possible, even _more_ beautiful now than she was when Hermione saw her more than a year ago. Perhaps it’s some combination therein. “Yes, I’m… I’m alright.”

Fleur holds her face still for a moment longer. Hermione can’t tear her eyes away. “Good,” she says finally, placing one soft, fleeting kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “I am glad you are safe.” She disappears into the kitchen then, leaving a (confusingly) blushing Hermione in her wake.

____________________

Fleur’s accent hasn’t entirely disappeared, Hermione notices somewhat-absentmindedly, the more time they spend in each other’s orbits. It still comes out in her more heated moments, when she gets particularly angry, or frustrated. It’s a curious thing to watch. Fleur seems to grow more beautiful in her anger, her face flushing prettily and her mouth frowning in some sort of imitation of ire. Her body tenses, like it’s gearing up for a fight (even if the fight is only a screaming match). It’s almost cute, really (which is not _quite_ the word Hermione would choose to use, were she asked to describe the expression Fleur adopts in her more heated moments, but it suffices in a pinch), to watch as her words escape her, as her English starts to fail and her Default-French takes over. The frustration she exhibits when her communication breaks down is, in its own way, endearing (though Hermione imagines Fleur has much different feelings associated with those instances).

Like tonight, for example. It’s one of the few nights when Hermione has Grimmauld Place almost entirely to herself. Harry is out with Ginny on one of the rare dates she manages to drag him along to. Ron has agreed to go home with his parents in order to help them sort through the old shed in the morning. Her other friends — Neville and Luna and assorted former-classmates — have all dispersed, off to their own homes for the evening. Only a few Order Members remain in the kitchen, presumably loitering because they have nothing better to do on a Thursday night. Hermione has already excused herself to the study to read (not feeling any sort of need or desire to play hostess to these regular visitors) by the time she hears the front door open and close — presumably the last remaining stragglers filtering on home.

But she only has a few moments of peace before she hears voices, raised and angry and speaking in a rapid-fire mix of French and English, filtering up from the entrance. She tries not to listen in on what they’re saying (she _honestly_ tries), but it becomes impossible as they move closer to the staircase and their voices grow in volume.

It’s Bill and Fleur, Hermione realizes with alarm. She’s never heard them fight before.

“I know you’re angry about this, Fleur, but please, try to see it from my—”

 _“Non, j’en ai assez._ I have… we _leave_ London. You said we will leave. _Nous avons une maison, une bonne maison!_ We ‘ave an _‘ome_ , Bill. I do not want this one.”

“I understand.” Bill’s voice is still low, still measured, like he’s hoping his calm will rub off on his wife and keep her emotions in-check, too. “And we still have Shell Cottage. But it’s too difficult for us to work remotely, right now. The dangers of the city are gone; we’re no longer under attack every other day. There’s no need to hide away from everyone, isolated and—”

But Fleur cuts him off abruptly. “I _like_ where we live!” she shouts. “I like our ‘ome! I do _not_ want to live _‘ere._ ”

“Harry promised us a room for a few months. Just a few months. Only until I finish this last mission, I promise.”

“And ‘ow long, exactly, will that be? ‘ow long must I sit here, wait for you, wait for you to bring us ‘ome? ‘ow long you make me sit and wait for you?”

Hermione thinks she definitely should not be listening to this conversation. It isn’t something she’s meant to hear, isn’t an exchange meant for her ears. She should leave, give them some privacy. Or she should make some noise; alert them to her presence. She could even cast a silencing charm, a muffling charm, to isolate herself from their conversation further, to make it so that their voices do not carry quite so easily through the dark and otherwise-empty house.

She does none of those things. Instead she stays still, impossibly still, and doesn’t make a sound.

Bill continues: “This work with the Order is _important._ I thought you knew that. I thought you felt the same way.”

 _“Oui! Bien sûr!_ But it is always _your_ work. Always _your famille_. I wanted to move to France. We could do good work there, for ze Order. _Mais non! England_ , you say. England iz where ze fighting ‘appens! England iz where you work, where _ton père travaille._ So, we stay in England. Now I want to stay in our ‘ouse _,_ but you say _non,_ we move! When do I get to ‘ave a say?”

“We’ve talked about this. My mission is _here_. The Order has its headquarters _here._ It doesn’t make _sense_ to move to France! _”_

Fleur makes a sound, some sort of strangled cross between a frustrated yell and an agonized groan. _“Tu n’écoutes pas!_ You do not listen! I say what I want, you act _comme je n’ai rien à dire!”_

“Fleur, baby, we just need—”

“Get out.”

“ _Fleur_.”

 _“Sortez!_ I am sick of this. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Fleur, please, let’s just talk about this some more. We can—”

 _“Demain,_ Bill. I am tired.”

Hermione doesn’t move. She doesn’t dare. She’s frozen in her seat, her book perched on her lap as she pretends that her ears aren’t straining for any sound, any movement from out in the hall. She hears the front door open and close softly, but nothing further for a few more long, tense seconds.

Then, with almost no warning whatsoever, the study door is yanked open as Fleur storms inside. She kicks the door shut with her heel, turning to face the slab of wood, glaring like it has personally offended her. “ _Merde!”_ she shouts, slamming her fist against the closed door. She hits the door again, muttering a string of barely-coherent words under her breath. Hermione never learned much French, can only string together a few butchered phrases into a sentence, but she doesn’t need to speak the language to understand the gist of Fleur’s tirade.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asks carefully, and Fleur startles at once, whipping around with wild eyes and something of an embarrassed flush on her cheeks.

“‘ermione!” she exclaims, immediately straightening her spine. “I… _je suis desolée,_ I did not know… I thought I waz alone.”

“I was just—” Hermione lifts her book lamely, waving it a little to draw Fleur’s eyes to it. When Fleur’s only response is an amused little smile, something between a smirk and an actual grin, Hermione feels her face heat up. “Sorry, I didn’t know… I’ll just be going, then.”

She stands, book tucked under her arm and hair tucked behind her ear. She makes her way towards the door, like she means to slip past, but Fleur puts a hand on her arm and Hermione slows to a stop. “Stay?” Fleur practically pleads, her expression open. She looks young, surprisingly young, and Hermione is once again struck by the knowledge (so easy to forget) that Fleur is only a few years older than herself. She’s barely out of her own adolescence. “I need…” Fleur shakes her head, “I ‘ave no one to talk to. Not ‘ere. Not in this country. I think I would like…” She works her jaw, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to struggle through a translation in her head. “I would _appreciate_ if you would stay with me.”

Hermione swallows. “Yes, I… I can stay. If you need.”

“Please.”

Hermione allows Fleur to lead her across the room, to the plush couch and leather armchair that sit by a fireplace that remains unlit. The air outside, while still chilly, is just a touch too warm for fires indoors. It will likely not be for another few months, when the seasons turn back to winter, before she and Harry begin to light them again.

Once they are seated, Hermione feels uncomfortable. She fights against the urge to fidget, to shift where she sits. When it looks like Fleur isn’t about to broach conversation between them, she clears her throat. “Er… What did you want to talk about?”

Fleur takes a breath. “You ‘eard ze fight, yes?”

Hermione wonders for a moment if she should pretend she _hadn’t_ been shamelessly eavesdropping on Fleur’s private conversation, but quickly brushes that thought aside. “Yes,” she answers truthfully. “Bill wants you to move to London?”

“Not just London. ‘ere. To this ‘ouse.” She shakes her head like she can’t quite believe it. “It iz a nice ‘ouse, ‘ermione. You ‘ave done a good job with it. But it… it iz not…”

“It’s not _your_ house.”

Fleur looks up at her then, a little surprised. _“Oui,”_ she says, her eyes wide and searching, like she had not expected Hermione to understand her so quickly. “It iz not mine.”

“I understand,” Hermione says, because she does. “That’s… I had to move out of my parents’ house a few months ago. It just… it wasn’t right, there. It didn’t feel like a home. And I wanted… I wanted something that was my own; something I could have and control.” She smiles gently in response to Fleur’s carefully neutral expression. “So, I understand how you feel.”

“Bill does not understand me. ‘is work, ‘e says… _that_ is ze most important thing. But I… I wish to think of things that are _not_ work. Building a ‘ome, a place… a place for a family.”

Hermione finds that a touch surprising. “You’re trying to start a family?”

Fleur huffs and runs a hand through her hair. It’s down around her shoulders, today; long and straight and looking uncharacteristically unkempt. Probably from her argument with Bill, earlier. Still, it’s unusual to see Fleur looking anything less than perfectly put-together. (It’s easy to forget how young she is.) “I… I do not know. Yes? Iz that not… that iz what we do, yes? After marriage, after war, children.”

Hermione shrugs. “I suppose. If you want.”

Fleur frowns. “If I want?”

“Well… yes. Is that something you want?”

“Of course I want children.”

“No… that’s not what I meant. I mean, is that something you want _now?_ Do you think you’re _ready_ to have a family?”

Fleur tips her nose up in a display of distaste. “I do not see ‘ow that iz any of your business.”

Hermione tries very hard not to sigh in exasperation. “You’re right, it isn’t. I just thought… well, we aren’t in a war, anymore. There’s… we have more _time,_ now. More time to think, to take our time with big decisions like these.” Why is she saying ‘we’ like she has any say in this at all? What decisions are weighing heavily on _Hermione’s_ mind? _She’s_ not the one contemplating children. “I just thought that, maybe… maybe no one had ever asked you, before.” She shrugs. “It’s your life. Do what you like. You said you wanted a friend, so I was just… trying to be a friend.”

Fleur blinks at her, her face a strange mix of emotions Hermione can’t quite decipher. “No one ‘as ever asked me this,” she says quietly.

Hermione, for some strange reason, feels like blushing. She clears her throat and stamps the feeling down. “Well, you should think about it. You’re only 22, right?” Fleur nods. “Right, so… you have plenty of time.”

“Time. Yes.” Fleur squints up at the ceiling, lost in thought. “I am not used to ‘aving time. My family… there are certain things they expect; certain things they believe I must—” She falls silent with something akin to a grimace.

“It must be hard,” Hermione ventures softly. Fleur is staring down at her hands, not making eye contact. “Dealing with pre-determined expectations, it… it must be hard, for you. I’m sorry.”

“You parents,” Fleur says, her head still down, her voice still low, “they… they ‘ave these expectations, too?”

“Oh, uh… no. Not really. They don’t… I don’t think they really understand my life, or… or what I want to do.” A bit of an oversimplification, if she’s being honest. _She_ doesn’t even fully understand what it is she wants to do. She’s been living in limbo for months, avoiding future responsibility by burying herself in important but ultimately meaningless tasks like home renovations and shopping for furnishings. She hasn’t even accepted any missions from the Order, though Kingsley continues to offer her low-level, low-risk opportunities to get out into the world, gather intelligence, insert herself within underground communities that may be able to provide key information opportunities… Yet here she is, on a Thursday night, sitting alone in a dark study _reading._

Well… not exactly _alone,_ as it turns out.

“What do they do, your parents?” Fleur asks, and Hermione has to blink a few times to draw herself back into their conversation.

“Oh, well they’re… they’re Muggles.” Hermione watches her carefully after that, ready and wary for any possible response. She’s gotten her fair share of positive and negative reactions from the revelation of her blood status, over the years. With Voldemort’s demise, it certainly feels less of a _pressing_ issue than before, but Hermione is not so ignorant as to believe that prejudice has been completely eradicated from the wizarding community in the past few months. She knows Fleur isn’t _prejudiced,_ per se, but not being outwardly prejudicial about the Weasley’s status within the pureblood community, or towards House Elves and Goblins, or even about the colour of Hermione’s skin does not mean that she is necessarily free from bias.

But Fleur just nods, clearly unsurprised. “Yes, I know.” Hermione frowns. She can’t recall ever telling Fleur that she was a Muggle-born. _Although_ , she thinks as her mind drifts back to Shell Cottage, as her hand drifts to absentmindedly cover the scar she will always have on her forearm, the word Bellatrix had carved into her skin all those months ago, _I suppose it isn’t much of a secret._

Fleur chuckles at her bemusement. “Viktor and I, we kept in touch after ze tournament,” she offers in explanation. There’s a twinkle in her eye when next she says, “‘e spoke very ‘ighly of you.”

Hermione flushes. She seems to be doing that a lot, lately. “Oh, yes. I’d… I’d quite forgotten.”

“But you still ‘ave not told me about your parents.”

“You aren’t… I mean, you can’t be interested in _that_ , surely. Your family is _much_ more interesting than—”

“But I _know_ my family,” Fleur interrupts. “I do not know yours. And I am curious about you, ‘ermione. You have a way about you that is… _très intéressant. Compliqué. J’aimerais mieux te connaître.”_

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” Hermione stutters. “My French is poor. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Fleur smiles, completely unbothered. “I would like to get to know you, ‘ermione.”

Hermione frowns. “But… why?”

“Curiosity, no?” Fleur says with a shrug. “We do not know each other. But if my ‘usband ‘as ‘is way, we will be… how you say… _les colocataires?_ The people who live together?”

“Oh, roommates?”

“Yes,” Fleur nods excitedly. “Yes, _roommates._ We will be roommates soon enough. And I am curious.”

“Well…” Hermione searches for any reason at all that Fleur would be simply engaging in conversation for conversation’s sake. They’ve never been anything like friends, before, so maybe she’s just trying to be polite by showing a curiosity in Hermione’s personal life. Perhaps she just doesn’t feel like heading back home to her husband to restart their fight, and this is as good an excuse as any to stay away for a few more minutes. But finding no hint of deception or boredom on Fleur’s face, Hermione ultimately decides… well, what harm could it do, really? “Alright,” she says with an air of finality. “If you’re curious, then… my parents are dentists.”

Fleur cocks her head in confusion. “What iz this? Dentists?”

“What’s a _dentist_?” Hermione asks, somewhat incredulously. “Do you… does the wizarding world _really_ not have _dentists? Anywhere?_ I thought it was just the Weasleys, because let’s be honest, they’re a right bit more out-of-it than the general population, but… _you too?_ What are you lot meant to do about fixing your _teeth_ , if not for dentists?”

“Ah, they work on teeth?” Fleur flashes hers in a bright, blinding smile, and Hermione is transfixed for a brief moment by the sheer brilliance of the motion. “We ‘ave spells for teeth.”

“But…” Hermione huffs, “well, they don’t _only_ fix teeth. They’re there to teach children about flossing, and brushing, and cavities, and gum and sugar and plenty of other things. Yes, it’s probably _easier_ for wizards to just… to just _magic_ their teeth straighter. Cheaper, too, I’m guessing. But magic can’t just be a cure for _everything._ And children can’t even _do_ magic properly, so having a profession specifically designed to teach them about proper oral hygiene is vitally—” Across from her Fleur has raised one single, perfectly-shaped eyebrow, and Hermione realizes all at once that she’s being teased. She flushes hotly and dips her head. “You’re making fun of me,” she grumbles quietly into the soft wool of her sweater.

Fleur laughs, a bright, melodious thing. Hermione is reminded, rather absurdly, of wind chimes. “I would not dare,” she says seriously, the twinkle ever-present in her eye. They look at each other for a few long moments. The energy between them feels almost electric, charged with something unnamed and unknowable. A strange friendship, a comradery, some innate understanding. But then the grandfather clock in the living room chimes, signalling the end of the hour, and the spell is broken.

Fleur stands almost at once, as if she’s only just realized the how late it is. “I should go.”

“Oh!” Hermione stands too, her book falling to the couch she has only just vacated. “You… I mean, you can stay, if you like. We have extra rooms.”

Fleur shakes her head. “ _Non,_ I should go ‘ome, I think. Bill will be worried about me.” She brushes her hands down the front of her shirt, the front of her jeans, as if trying to remove invisible wrinkles. When she finally looks back up at Hermione, she’s smiling. “But thank you, ‘ermione,” she says as she makes her way to the door. “I think… I believe this iz what I needed.”

“Well, I’m… I’m happy I could help.”

Fleur disappears from the study and then, moments later, from the house. Hermione remains rooted to her spot, her heart beating a heavy, steady pulse in her chest, her stomach fluttering with something that feels suspiciously like butterflies. She wonders why on earth she’s having _this_ reaction to a conversation with _Fleur Delacour,_ of all people.

She attributes it to the pleasant warmth of newfound friendship, of companionship discovered in even the most unwitting partners, and tries not to dwell on it further.

____________________

With Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all living under the same roof, Hermione really thought there would be more fights between them. Sibling blow-ups or ex-lovers’ quarrels or rudimentary friendship spats. Fighting over whose turn it is to take out the bins, or to do the dishes, or to wrangle together the groceries. And they _do_ have their fair share of disagreements. She won’t pretend things are perfectly functional _all_ of the time.

There’s the time Ron comes back completely plastered from a night at the pubs with Seamus and Dean, when he slurs his words and stumbles through the house and breaks a perfectly nice lamp Hermione’s only just purchased. There’s the time Ginny teasingly chucks one of her mugs in Harry’s direction, in imitation of a particularly impressive pass at Quidditch practice the day before, but accidentally hits Ron in the back of the head with it instead. Or when Hermione gets in one of her moods, when she spends all day building and painting and constructing, when she rains sawdust into their beds and makes the house smell of fumes for days on-end.

So, no, they don’t get along all of the time. But, eventually they fall into their own rhythms, making their house work like a well-oiled machine. It goes like this:

Hermione wakes first. She dresses in the near-pitch-black and fetches the post first-thing. 1 copy of _The Guardian_ (for herself), 2 copies of _The Daily Prophet_ (for herself and Harry), 2 copies of _The Seeker Weekly_ when available (for Ron and Ginny), and 4 copies of _The Quibbler_ (because they all want to support Luna). She sets the coffee and tea on after that,

Harry and Ron are the next to awaken. They come downstairs one after the other. Harry splits off to grab a cup of coffee from Hermione while he cooks the eggs. Ron puts a kettle on, his hair still wet from his morning shower (Harry and Ginny are both adamant night-time bathers) and makes the toast, sets the table. The three of them sit in companionable silence as they munch on eggs and toast. Sometimes they exchange quiet conversation, but sometimes they just read their individual periodicals. Ron sips tea while Harry and Hermione opt for the stronger and slightly-more gratifying coffee.

Ginny arises last. She comes dashing down the stairs minutes before she’s meant to be at the pitch, pauses just long enough to stuff her mouth with a piece of toast and grab a _Quibbler_ on the way out. She always manages to press a firm kiss to each of their cheeks. Except Ron, of course, who she punches on the arm.

Then Ginny is gone and the boys are off and then it’s just Hermione, alone in Grimmauld Place to amuse herself and/or sit around bored until the others filter back from their various jobs and trainings, to join Hermione in the house that no longer feels like a prison. Sometimes she’s made dinner, or gotten takeaway, but more often than not one of the others (read: Harry) cooks. Sometimes Neville joins, or sometimes Luna. Once or twice Ginny brings back a few of her teammates (those who aren’t likely to try and get Harry’s autograph). There are nights when the Order hosts their meetings, so Hermione is able to busy herself putting together light snacks and refreshments. But those nights are rare, and far between.

And those are their days. All of them, one after the other.

And, look in all fairness, Hermione doubts very much that the others know just how _much_ of her day is spent alone, in silent isolation. Without a job, without the pressures and motivations of class schedules, without deadlines and assignments and authoritative instruction, Hermione spends most of her time doing… _nothing_. Well, if you can count reading as _nothing_ (which she _certainly_ does not, for it engages the mind and the imagination and is a consistent means of enhancing one’s intelligence, to boot).

But the point stands that Hermione is, for the first time in nearly a decade, _by herself_ for most of her daily life. It’s something she’s not experienced since her early adolescence, when her schoolmates would do just about anything to avoid having their parents schedule a pre-mandated playdate with her. It’s been more than half her life since Hermione has gone so long without consistent daily communication.

 

 

Until, of course, Bill and Fleur move in.

 

 

They move in one quiet Sunday only a month or so from when Hermione and Fleur shared their strange, one-off night-time conversation. The air has started just started to warm, as the leftover chill from winter slowly begins to seep from the atmosphere. The trees are beginning to regrow their leaves, greenery overtaking the bleak grey that has so permeated and dominated the street outside their front door for months.

It is not Hermione’s favourite season, nor her favourite time of year. She much prefers late autumn, when the leaves fall off the trees in earnest, leaving a graveyard of yellow and orange and red and brown to litter the ground, crunching underfoot. When warm transitions to cold, when brisk wind makes cheeks flush; when scarves begin to make their appearances around necks; when it finally becomes socially acceptable for Hermione to reintroduce her preferred three-blanket night-time sleeping routine, without teasing from the others. Before the grey skies of winter, before the icy rain and the light snowfalls make travel treacherous. (London does not get as much snow as other parts of the country, Hermione has realized; but after her winter spent in the Forest of Dean, she finds she does not particularly mind this.)

But, while spring may not be her favourite time of year, it does bring with it some sort of stark relief; a feeling of _rebirth_ and _renewal_ and _restarting_ and _second chances._ When things begin to smell of flowers, again; when children begin to play outside once more; when the rains turn warmer, and the fields begin to bloom. Hermione feels rejuvenated without even really realizing it.

The very first morning after the move, Hermione wakes up, gets dressed, fetches the post, and, as she’s walking into the kitchen with her head buried in the newspaper, she runs smack into Fleur.

“Oh!” she exclaims, startled equally by the fact that anyone has managed to wake up before her and also that it is _Fleur_ standing in their kitchen, with a robe wrapped around her nightdress, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Hermione’s hands fly to her chest, the paper of the post crinkling in her fists. “Fleur! I… I didn’t expect… I mean—”

Fleur puts a hand on her shoulder, presumably as a means of settling her and calming her down (not knowing, of course, that the touch does the exact opposite. For inexplicable reasons Hermione absolutely _refuses_ to consider). “It iz okay!” Fleur reassures her quickly, steadily. “I am sorry. I did not know anyone would be awake.”

“Yes, right. I’m sorry, too. I’m used to being the only one up so early. There’s… we sort of have a routine.”

“Ah, please,” Fleur steps to the side and gestures her arm out in an almost comical imitation of an over-indulgent butler, “do not let me be in your way.”

“Er… right. Of course.” Hermione hesitates for only a moment longer as her fingers tug at the bottom of her sleep shorts. She wonders briefly if she should go upstairs and change into something that resembles _actual_ clothing (her much-too-large t-shirt and much-too-small shorts are not exactly something she _likes_ the general population to see her in) before dismissing that thought off-hand as a waste of time.

So she tries to go about her regular morning routine as if Fleur isn’t there. Fleur doesn’t make it exactly _hard_ to ignore her presence — it turns out she is remarkably good at keeping herself _just_ out of the way, somehow anticipating Hermione’s movements a half-step before she makes them, ensuring that she is almost always on the opposite side of the kitchen to wherever Hermione needs to be.

Still, her presence is… _distracting,_ to say the least. Fleur spends the entire time with her hip leaning on the kitchen counter. She doesn’t say anything, and Hermione doesn’t have any proof (because every time she looks her way Fleur seems to be very focused on the cup of coffee in her hands), but she could _swear_ Fleur spends the full fifteen minutes they spend alone together watching her. Hermione doesn’t catch her, not even once, but she can feel the hairs on her arm raise, the way she gets when she _knows_ someone is looking at her. She has no proof at all, but unless she’s going completely mad, she could _swear_ Fleur is watching her.

And it’s _distracting._

Hermione tries to ignore it. She clears her throat as she settles into her regular seat at the table. She opens the _Prophet_ with a satisfying _snap_ and hopes that it isn’t superbly obvious that she isn’t reading a single word. And the whole time, Fleur never says anything to her. She drinks her coffee in silence, peruses a magazine with moderate interest, and comes nowhere near her. But Hermione feels her presence all the same, like a tingling of her nerve endings, right under her skin. It’s a little infuriating. She has to stop herself from huffing in annoyance several times.

But then there are footsteps descending the stairs, and Hermione can’t help but feel relieved at the knowledge that they’re no longer going to be sitting alone in this awkward silence in the kitchen.

It’s Harry who pokes his head in, first. “Morning, Hermione,” he says brightly. It takes him half a moment to notice that she isn’t alone, but he recovers from his surprise easily. “Oh, hello, Fleur. Good morning.”

Fleur smiles softly. _“Bonjour,_ ‘arry.”

Harry grabs his papers from the table on his way towards the coffee, skimming his eyes over the headlines as he pours himself a mug. Next, he grabs a few eggs from the refrigerator, a frying pan from its spot over the stove. And for a few minutes the only sounds in the kitchen are those of eggs hitting a hot pan, sizzling as they cook. It’s only when Harry is finally plating the food that he speaks again. “Strange to read the post every morning and not see a list of the dead first thing, isn’t it?”

“You won’t hear me complaining!” Ron says as he finally meanders his way into the kitchen. “I’m glad for a bit of good news, personally. Nice change of pace.”

“Not all good news, though,” Hermione ventures softly from her spot at the table.

Harry makes his way over to her. He passes her a plate of eggs as he glances over her shoulder down at the newspaper in her hands. “Riots in London?”

“What riots, now?” Ron asks from near the stove, looking perplexed and a little worried.

Hermione holds up her paper so he can see that it’s Muggle news. “Anti-capitalist demonstrations are planned for today in central London. It’s a Muggle thing. But either way, you lot should be careful on your way to work; might get a little dicey.”

Harry nods as he takes his own seat, but Ron still looks confused. “What in the ruddy hell does ‘anti-capitalist’ mean?” he asks, blinking owlishly at the lot of them. Fleur snickers into her coffee. Hermione just rolls her eyes. When it becomes clear no one is going to answer him, Ron huffs. “Fine. _Don’t_ tell me, then. Who needs you lot? I have plenty of people who are willing to answer the very simple and _completely_ understandable questions I have about Muggle goings-on.” He’s mostly talking to himself at this point, but, in true form, he doesn’t really seem to notice.

“Mmm,” Harry hums noncommittally as he finally takes a long sip of his coffee. He looks down at it in surprise. “Blimey, that’s good. What’d you do to it this morning, Hermione? It’s fantastic.”

Hermione shrugs. “I didn’t make it. That was all Fleur.”

“Huh.” The perplexed expression lingers on Harry’s features for only a few more moments before it’s overtaken by a beaming smile. “Well, Fleur,” he hoists his mug into the air, “jolly good!”

Hermione reaches across the table and smacks him on the shoulder. “No one talks like that,” she mutters, feeling for some strange reason a little embarrassed by his behaviour.

“Not true. _I_ talk like that.”

“Since when?”

“Since he took Ginny to the Muggle pictures and Ginny told him she fancies the old-timey ones,” Ron teases from by the fridge, from which he pulls jars of jams and preserves. Harry flicks a bit of egg at him.

“Wha’ ‘o I fanthy?” Ginny calls as she bounds into the kitchen, hands wrestling with her hair and wand clenched between her teeth. Her kit is still un-done, her boots un-laced, but Hermione supposes it’ll have to do for this morning.

“Harry, doing funny voices,” Ron answers.

Ginny brightens and grabs Harry by the tie, yanking him just a little up from his chair as she falls into a swift but bruising kiss against his lips. Ron makes a gagging sound from somewhere near the stove, but Hermione just chuckles over the top of her paper. “Damn right, I do,” she says when she finally releases him. Harry’s glasses are askew now and his tie has become significantly loosened, but still he has a dopey grin plastered to his face that doesn’t seem to want to leave.

Ginny pushes his shoulders until he tumbles back into his chair, still looking a little star-struck. She shoots him a wink, presses a kiss to Hermione’s cheek, takes a swipe at Ron (that he dutifully dodges), and even manages a short little half-wave at Fleur before she’s off towards the front door.

“Ginny, wait!” Ron calls, and her footsteps pause in the entranceway. “What’s ‘anti-capitalist’ mean?” Fleur laughs loudly and Hermione has to bite down on her tongue to keep her expression neutral.

Ginny growls as she yanks the door open. “Oh, read a book, you git!”

Ron huffs and glances at his watch. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with you lot. What a _stupid_ thing not to tell me.”

“If it’s so stupid, Ronald, then it shouldn’t _matter_ if you don’t know,” Hermione shoots back evenly, without even sparing him a glance.

Ron rolls his eyes. He looks at Harry and catches him with the same stupid grin on his face that he’s had since Ginny first walked into the room. “Ugh, stop being gross, Harry.” He grabs Harry by the back of his shirt and drags him towards the door. “C’mon, you oaf. We’re going to be late. Bye, Hermione!”

“Bye, Hermione! See you tonight!” Harry manages to call, too.

“Bye, you two. Don’t do anything to get yourselves kicked out!”

Ron’s final words are a mangled, “We’ll try!” before he and Harry are both out the door.

That leaves Hermione and Fleur, alone in the kitchen at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, with all of their buffers gone and most of their topics of conversation already exhausted. It’s a little awkward, to say the least.

They start to speak at the same time.

“Do you—”

“Where’s—?”

Hermione flushes and Fleur chuckles, still lounging with that easy, effortless, _laissez-faire_ attitude that she’s somehow perfected. It’s almost annoying, how unruffled she looks. How effortlessly _unbothered._ Like this forthcoming conversation _isn’t_ going to be one of the most painful experiences of her life. Like she rolls out of bed every morning with perfect hair and a perfect, comfortable outfit, ready to exchange quiet pleasantries with the woman who only a few short hours ago became her unwitting roommate.

“Please,” Fleur says gently, with a smile that can only be described as _open_ painting her lips, “you first.”

“I was only wondering if Bill was going to come down for breakfast. Harry made more than enough for him, as well.”

Fleur shakes her head. “‘e is off on a mission. ‘e left very early this morning.”

“Ah.” Hermione shifts in her seat and wishes desperately that she could turn her attention back to her paper without seeming extraordinarily rude for doing so. “And… do you want something? Toast, or—?”

Fleur shakes her head again. _“Non, merci._ I do not like to eat in ze mornings.”

Hermione has an anxious energy buzzing through her hands. She wants to drum her fingers on the table, or maybe hand-scrub all the dishes in the sink, just for something to do. Anything at all to do. She’s not sure _why_ she feels so uncomfortable — Fleur has done absolutely nothing to warrant this reaction, after all. She’s been nothing but polite and quiet all morning. But Hermione can’t help the way her fingers itch for a task, the way her heart rate is just slightly above where it usually rests. God, if only she could _relax_ and get a _hold of herself_ and—

“They are funny,” Fleur says next, and it’s so unexpected that Hermione has to frown for a moment before she realizes what, and specifically _who,_ she’s talking about.

“Oh! Harry and Ron?”

“Yes. A funny pair. Ron is… ‘e ‘as not changed much, from when ‘e was in school.”

The observation startles a laugh out of Hermione, who can’t help but snicker even as she nods in agreement. “You’re not wrong about that.”

“‘e does not read much?”

“He doesn’t read _at all._ It’s a miracle he’s able to tie his shoes every morning, really.” Fleur grins at her and it takes Hermione a second to realize she’s grinning back. Time is somehow suspended between them then, hanging in the early morning light like dust motes, and there’s something in Hermione’s chest, something that feels _light,_ maybe, or perhaps _gleeful,_ but it’s hard to—

Hermione clears her throat, and the moment is broken. “Are you off to work then, too?”

Fleur shakes her head. “ _Non._ I stopped working during ze war.”

It’s not an unexpected answer, but something about it still catches Hermione off-guard. For all of her (admittedly very minimal) interactions with Fleur, she never really considered her the kind to enjoy empty days, or time off; lack of work, or lack of a schedule. The war has been finished for well over a year, now. It’s surprising that she’s still without a job. “Have you thought of going back?” Hermione asks, and hopes that she is not overstepping by asking.

Fleur arches one perfect eyebrow in her direction. “‘ave _you_?”

Hermione swallows. _“Touché.”_

“Ah, now this word I know.”

Hermione shakes her head ruefully. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to work,” she says quietly, almost to herself; almost like she’s just thinking out-loud. “It’s just that I’ve not… I don’t exactly know what I want to _do_. Now that I’m out of school, it feels like everyone is just… off working in the world, now. Making a difference. But I just… I don’t know. It feels strange, to be done with school so soon. If I were still in the Muggle world I’d already be in uni, getting a higher degree.” She seems to come back to herself then, and flushes darkly when she realizes what she’s just said. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes quickly, “I don’t know what I’m yammering on about. You didn’t ask for my life story.”

“Why not go to university?” Hermione looks up at her in surprise. “You can go, if you want, yes?”

“W-well… I don’t know. I hadn’t… hadn’t thought of that. I’m not sure anyone’s ever _done_ it, before.” And that’s true: Hermione’s never heard any stories of Muggle-born graduates from Hogwarts (or any other magical school, for that matter) attending university after-the fact. But the thought is tempting, is eerily exhilarating, almost. The chance for more of what she knows, an extension to her adolescence; the chance to study more, to learn more, to advance herself further, prepare herself greater. Hermione allows herself the fantasy for a few long moments before she ultimately shakes herself out of the daydream. It just isn’t realistic. No good dreaming about something that isn’t likely to happen. “Besides,” she says, “I don’t exactly have exam scores or A-levels to use on applications. Not sure how keen Muggle unis are on accepting my _Potions_ N.E.W.T.S _.”_

Fleur laughs. “Ah, maybe you ‘ave a point. But if not school, surely a job? Minerva ‘as said that you could ‘ave your pick of Ministry departments.” Hermione flushes and looks down at her hands. “But,” Fleur continues softly after a moment, continuing her habit of being annoyingly observant, “maybe this is not what you want?”

Hermione fights a shrug. “It’s… hard. It feels like… like I should want to do something _more_ than—” She clears her throat and cuts herself off. “It’s stupid,” she finally dismisses with a mumble.

Fleur puts her coffee down for the first time all morning and takes a step forward. She places a hand on top of Hermione’s where it rests on the table, and the touch _should_ unsettle her, it _should_ make her want to flinch away from the feeling, but instead it’s just… _nice_. Comforting. The way a touch should be. “I do not think it is stupid, what you want,” Fleur says in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

She doesn’t know why it’s so easy to talk to Fleur, why she can open up to her in a way she can’t open up to anyone else around her. Maybe it’s because Fleur occupies an impossible niche in Hermione’s life: a peer, yet also an elder; an authority figure, yet someone who also needs to be taught; family; a friend; a practical stranger. Fleur is all of those things and yet none of them.

But maybe it’s because she _isn’t_ someone important in Hermione’s life. There’s no risk of her telling Hermione’s deepest fears and insecurities to Harry or Ron; as far as Hermione can tell, she’s never spoken with them one-on-one. And it’s not like Fleur is in any position to judge Hermione’s decisions. And even if she _were_ in a position to pass judgment, Hermione’s fairly certain that she’s not that kind of person either way. She’s just… a woman who seems like she wants to listen.

And Hermione _desperately_ needs someone to listen to her. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d needed it, until now. But now that she _does_ realize, it’s like she can’t _un-know_ it.

“It’s just…” Hermione fights the words for a few more seconds before they all come tumbling out of her at once, unbidden and unwelcome but completely unstoppable. “Everyone I know is off chasing incredible dreams. Harry and Ron are training to be Aurors, and they’re working for the Order besides that. Neville is becoming a professor and Luna is taking over her father’s paper and telling actual, _important_ stories better than the _Daily Prophet_ ever has _._ And Ginny has already been drafted by the Harpies, and she’s set to be the youngest professional Quidditch player in a generation. And I’m _happy_ for them, truly I am. I’m so incredibly proud of them all for finding things they love, for… for _doing_ things they love. But then I take a step back from the pride and the happiness and I realize that I’m just… I’m just _here._ And for a while it was _fine,_ it was _enough_ to just be here, working on fixing this place up. But now that’s _done_ and there’s nothing else for me to _do here_ but I can’t…” She shudders. Takes a breath. “I just keep thinking that if I _leave,_ if I go outside and start my-my real life, my career, that it’ll…” Her cheeks are wet, the tops of her hands hot from where the tears have slipped down her face and fallen. She’s crying. She hadn’t noticed. “I’m not ready,” she tearfully admits between choked-off sobs. “It-it feels so horrible to say out loud, but I… I’m not _ready_ for anything more. And I feel so _useless_. I feel like such a failure, because I _know_ I should be ready. Everyone else is moving on and starting over but I still… I feel like I can’t _breathe_ out there and I don’t know what to do about it.” She buries her head in her shaking hands.

Sometime over the course of Hermione’s explosion of grief and emotion and honesty, Fleur has managed to crouch next to her. She’s balanced on the balls of her feet, one hand on Hermione’s, and the other on her shoulder. She doesn’t move them, doesn’t rub them in soothing circles or anything of the sort. She just sits there, with her hands providing constant and firm pressure. A reminder, perhaps, that Hermione is not alone. “You are not a failure,” Fleur says softly, but the softness of her voice does not diminish the strength behind her words. “We all deal with things differently. If you are not ready to be working, then you do not work. You must be better, first.”

Hermione shakes her head and tries to swallow her hiccups. She keeps her head in her hands, her eyes clenched tight. If she doesn’t have to look at Fleur, then she doesn’t have to see the pity in her eyes, or the way that she’s almost definitely forcing herself to calmly placate Hermione. “But I’m scared… I’m scared that I’m never going to _be_ better. What if this is it? What if this is as good as it’s ever going to get, for me? I don’t… I don’t know if I can _do that_ , Fleur, I don’t know—”

“Shhh,” Fleur hushes her softly. She puts a hand on Hermione’s cheek, and uses her thumb to brush away the tears that still spill from Hermione’s eyes. She tilts Hermione’s head towards her, coaxes her face gently away from her hands. Hermione looks at her with wide, watering eyes, and sees nothing of the pity she had feared would be present in Fleur’s expression; nothing of the condescension she expected. There is only openness, only understanding. “This is not a fear to concern yourself with,” Fleur says quietly. “It will only lead to more ‘eartache, to more trouble.”

“But I can’t stop thinking about it,” Hermione whispers back. “It’s like… school was the last thing I was actually _good_ at. And if I don’t have something that I want to do, if I don’t have something to make me get out of bed in the morning… if I don’t have something to _work towards_ … I don’t know. It just… it’s hard not to feel like such a failure, sometimes.”

Fleur tilts her head, her lips pursed in quiet contemplation. She seems to be looking at Hermione carefully, like she’s trying to read something in her eyes. If she’s looking for something specific, Hermione has no idea what it might be. “What else were you good at?” she finally asks.

“Pardon?”

“I know you, ‘ermione. It is not only school. You are good at many things. What did you do at ‘ogwarts, when you did not study?”

“I…” Hermione shakes her head. “ _Nothing_. I mean, most of the time I was trying to keep Harry alive. And I studied practically every free minute of the day. I didn’t—”

“There must be _something_ you like to do, yes?”

“I… I suppose, for a while, I… tried to free all the House Elves that worked at Hogwarts.” Fleur looks surprised. Hermione flushes. “I know, it was stupid. But they’re _slaves,_ you know? Even if it’s what they _want_ or what they _like_ to do _,_ even if the Hogwarts kitchens are better than most pureblood family homes… they’re _slaves._ And they don’t have a say in… in their lives, or in their futures. And I… never thought that was right.”

“This is something you have passion for.”

“Yes. I… I suppose that I do.”

Fleur claps her hands together. _“Très bon._ This is what you do.”

Hermione gapes at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving. “Wh-free _House Elves_? That’s… that isn’t a _job_.”

“It is a passion. It is a… how you say… _desire_. You want to do this. You should do this.”

“I don’t… I wouldn’t even know…” Hermione shakes her head. She seems to be doing a lot of that, lately. “How would I even _start_?”

“Bill,” Fleur says simply. “‘e knows many people at the Ministry. Arthur, too. Percy. Kingsley, and ‘arry and Ron. Your professors.”

“They—”

“You ‘ave many friends, ‘ermione. Many who know you, who would love for you to work with them. Many who would _‘elp_ you find something you love.”

“Wait, wait wait wait. You don’t expect me to just… _ask_ one of the Weasleys and then get a Ministry job the next _day_ , do you?”

Fleur laughs. _“Non, c’est ridicule._ But you talk to them, and you meet people, and you talk to more people… _voilà!_ Soon, you ‘ave a job.”

“I’m not…” This whole thing feels more than a little ridiculous. (A little _exciting,_ too; a little like _possibility,_ but Hermione refuses to acknowledge that part of herself.) And besides the fact that this plan is _completely mental_ and absolutely definitely _would not work,_ the irony is not exactly lost on her that _Fleur_ is hardly one to be giving other people _career advice_. Considering the fact that, at the moment, she is rather without a career herself. “ _You’re_ not looking for a job!” Hermione exclaims, grabbing onto the only part of her thought process she is confident she can articulate properly. “Why should I have to?”

“We will look together.”

“ _Fleur_.”

“We will both ‘ave jobs!” She claps her hands again. “Yes, this is good. It will be good to be out of ze ‘ouse, to ‘ave a purpose. I do not wait around all day for Bill to come ‘ome, and you, you realize that you are not a failure. And you ‘elp ‘ouse Elves be free!”

“It… it’s not so _simple_ as that, though.”

“Ah, _non?_ Why not?”

And Hermione, though she tries her best, cannot come up with a satisfying answer to that question.

____________________

Though Ron and Ginny (un)officially live at Grimmauld Place, they still return to the Burrow several nights a week. Ginny likes to pretend it’s for their mother’s sake, but Ron confides in her one afternoon that he and Ginny are equally as anxious to catch sight of their family members as their parents are to have all their children under one roof again. George only ever manages to show up to every third or so dinner, too, so they like to go simply for the chance to see their most-elusive brother. Most of the nights George _does_ show, he brings Angelina with him, and they always pause to stand silent vigil together by the gate for a few minutes before they leave. He’s so much quieter than he used to be, these days.

Harry and Hermione spend many nights with only each other for company.

Hermione is very glad that it is _Harry_ she’s stuck with more often than not, rather than Ron, or even Ginny. They may be two of her dearest friends, but Ron and Ginny have always had a certain way about them, an energy that makes them almost combative contrasting forces. They are excitable, never ones to sit still. They both seem to abhor reading and other silent, solitary activities. Hermione is quiet, contemplative; Ron and Ginny are loud, brash, and impulsive. And, if nothing else, they certainly do make for interesting foils.

Hermione’s quite sure that that’s part of the reason why Harry loves Ginny so much: she’s loud, opinionated, strong-willed and sure of herself. She says what she means, always speaks up about what she wants. It stands out in stark contrast to Harry’s own personality. He’s much more likely to suffer in silence, to face his problems alone, to deal with his own issues on his _own_. (Hermione is similar in that regard). But Ginny, oh no. Ginny is always expressing herself, always complaining when she has an issue, always seeking and offering advice. Hermione thinks it’s part of the reason they work so well together. Opposites attract, and all that.

(It’s one of the reasons she was so convinced for so long that she and Ron would work well together, too. In a way, they sort of make perfect sense on paper. Ron is the comedic funny-man to her no-nonsense approach. Ron is an idealist, a dreamer, whereas Hermione is pragmatic almost to a fault. Ron reminds her that there’s more to life than books and learning — like friendship, like loyalty, like chocolate frogs and Quidditch — and Hermione reminds Ron of the fact that, sometimes, though it may feel impossible, responsibility to yourself and — most importantly — to others must always win out. But their relationship has always been tumultuous, always fraught with miscommunication and two partners who are stubbornly unwilling to budge an inch or to apologize when they have wronged. Both consistently convinced that they are always in the right. Both take personal slights a little too personally, and hold onto them like a vice, never wanting to let go.)

(They make sense on paper, a confluence of explosive passion and heightened emotions and give-and-take and push-and-pull that should match up exquisitely. But in execution, they fizzle out.)

So, Hermione is very glad of the fact that it is Harry she finds herself sharing quiet, solitary evenings with on those cool spring evenings. She’s very glad of the fact that it’s Harry who she shares a sitting room with, because Harry — unlike the Weasleys — is capable of quietly entertaining himself for many hours while making very little noise. (She knows it comes from his childhood, from his years of abuse and neglect and mistreatment, when silence was survival and patience was safety, and it makes her heart ache every time.) Sometimes they will play a game of Wizard’s Chess, or Muggle chess. Sometimes they will play card games, Muggle games they know from their youth or a game of Exploding Snap. Sometimes the telly is on softly in the background.

Most of the time it’s quiet.

Until, suddenly, it’s not.

Tonight, their very pleasant evening of chipper storytelling and a few rounds of Muggle chess (wherein Hermione soundly trounces her partner) is interrupted when, after he excuses himself for a few moments, Harry drops something in the kitchen, and the sound of it shattering jolts Hermione out of her complacency.

She comes racing into the kitchen mere seconds later, her wand already drawn, eyes wide and scanning for enemies in the shadows, for potential threats in dark, hidden corners. “What is it?” she exclaims, her eyes darting around the space. “Are you alright, Harry?” But then she sees him, leaning against the counter with his hands clenched into fists, his face white as a ghost, and Hermione’s stomach sinks with dread. “Harry?” she asks as carefully as she can, already petrified. “What’s wrong? Is it… is it your scar?”

He shakes his head mutely. For a moment Hermione feels like she can breathe, again. “What happened?” she ventures softly, storing her wand back in her pocket as she takes a few steps towards him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… I found this mug in the cupboard, and it… it was Sirius’ favourite. And I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head. His eyes are closed. Hermione thinks it must be to try and ward off tears. “I’m fine,” he continues. “I’m fine. Usually I… I’m usually fine. This hasn’t happened in years; I don’t know why—”

“Harry?”

He starts crying now, in earnest. Hermione can barely contain her shock, her worry. “I’m so sorry,” he says with a thick throat. He scrubs at his eyes, almost angrily, almost like he’s mad at the tears for falling. “I don’t mean t-to cry about this. I just… it was _his_ mug and he’ll never use it anymore and… and Ginny told me Molly still cries almost every night over Fred. And I’ve gone and I-I’ve dropped the mug, so now it’s broken, and have you noticed how George is, recently? How he acts around everyone? And I can’t help but think that I-that we-that everything that happened was… And I was _laughing,_ tonight. I was laughing with you when Sirius is _dead._ And so is Fred. And Mad-Eye and Dobby and Dumbledore and R-Remus and—”

“Harry,” Hermione tries to soothe, reaching a tentative hand towards his shoulder. “Please. You’re not… this won’t do any good.” But she knows those words are empty, empty and useless, and Harry is about as likely to take heed of them as he is to name Horace Slughorn as Godfather to his first-born. But Hermione still feels like she needs to do _something._ She’s never been good at emotional comfort, never been the kind to sit by and patiently wait for someone who is upset to calm down. She’s desperate to feel useful, desperate to _do something_ to make Harry stop crying (because Harry _never_ cries and that in and of itself is unsettling). “Look,” she says hastily, “we can fix the mug. See?” She mutters the charm under her breath and the pieces of porcelain on the tile floor quiver for a moment before they shoot together, mending along the fractured seams like they had never even been apart.

But Harry just shakes his head harder. “It’s not _about_ the mug, Hermione!” he exclaims, pulling away from her roughly. His eyes are red-rimmed behind his glasses. He looks… not angry, not _quite_ , but close enough to angry for Hermione to read the emotion in the furrow of his brow, in the way his lips are pulled tight together. “It never was! I was _laughing_ tonight and they’re all _dead!_ And sometimes… sometimes it feels like no one remembers! Like we’re all moving on, like we’re all trying to move on and _forget_ them and forget what they _did_ and how they _died_ trying to make the world a better place, and—”

Hermione grabs his hands to stop their wild, erratic waving. She grips them tightly in hers and tries to pull him back to her. “We aren’t forgetting them,” she says earnestly. “I promise you, Harry; no one who loved them is going to forget them. Not ever.”

His hands are trembling. She can feel it. She thinks Harry wouldn’t like the fact that she’s aware of the shaking, so pretends she doesn’t notice. “How do you know?” he asks weakly. “How do you know that one day you won’t just wake up and… and realize that it’s been a whole week, and you haven’t even thought of them once? All those people… they had parents, and brothers, and… and _children,_ Hermione, and now they’re just—”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever go a whole week without thinking of them. I don’t think that I could. I loved them too, Harry; I loved all of them. Even the ones I didn’t know; I loved them, too.

“Moving on isn’t forgetting,” she whispers into the kitchen. The words feel strange on her tongue: a truth she’s aware of, but hasn’t quite been able to acknowledge, yet. “And just because we aren’t drowning every day, doesn’t mean we aren’t still hurting.”

“But how is it fair? Why should we get to be happy, when they… when they…”

Hermione shakes her head again. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “I don’t know why it happened the way it did. It isn’t fair, you’re right. None of them deserved it, and it isn’t fair that they’re gone. But we can’t… we can’t do anything about that. All we can do is… is the best we can, to… to honour them. To make their sacrifices… to make the losses mean something. So it doesn’t feel like they died for nothing.”

“They _did_ die for nothing.”

“No,” Hermione corrects quietly. “They died for us. They died for _peace._ Same as any of us would have done.”

She’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say; she’s not even sure if it’s a _good_ thing to say. But it’s all she can think of, at the moment. She hopes Harry can find some solace in her promise, in her words. Even if he never says so out loud. She hopes that the guilt does not weigh too heavily upon him; she hopes that he’s starting to forgive himself, starting to understand that he isn’t responsible for every life lost in the war. She hopes that he understands the things she cannot ever hope to say.

She hopes he can sleep at night.

(She has so much trouble falling asleep.)

____________________

On the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione wakes up screaming.

She should have expected it, really; should have seen it coming a mile off. It takes her ages to go to bed, that night. She finally falls into a fitful, restless sleep just a few hours before dawn, her mind whirling and her stomach churning. She dreams of dark rooms, of blinding pain, of a giant, serpentine skeleton, of an enchanted fire that chases and chases and chases her, consuming everything in its path, burning the back of her neck and the backs of her hands as she races away from it. She dreams of dark woods, of Voldemort’s red eyes, of Harry’s body, limp in Hagrid’s arms. She dreams of cold marble floors and unendurable agony and Bellatrix’s high, deranged laughter echoing in a cavernous room…

She wakes up screaming.

Fleur is the one who finds her. She’s the only one in Grimmauld Place, tonight; the only one who, like Hermione, had chosen to stay behind rather than attend the memorial service. Even Harry had been determined to go, his jaw set and Ginny’s hand firmly wrapped in his own. He hasn’t been back in almost 2 years, but ultimately decided that he could no longer avoid facing up to his demons.

But Fleur has no connection to Hogwarts; no burning desire to pay her respects to a mass-grave of students she has never known, and so decides to stay back. (At least, that’s what she says. Hermione wonders if, maybe, she’s having a little trouble facing up to her own demons, too. Or maybe she just hadn’t wanted Hermione to be alone, tonight. Any of those options seems plausible, if not always entirely likely.)

(Hermione hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of going back. Not now. Not when everything has just started to feel _good_ and _right_ and _whole_ again.)

“What iz it?” Fleur shouts as she barges into Hermione’s bedroom, her wand brandished out in front of her as she turns wildly on the spot, her eyes scanning into the darkest corners for any sign of danger. She’s in her sleep clothes — a comfortable shirt and a loose pair of trousers — and her hair is down around her face. She’s clearly only barely-awake, as is evidenced by the thicker accent that has slipped back into place within her words, by the way her hair looks so characteristically unkempt and untamed.

Hermione is sitting up in bed, her forehead damp with cold, nervous sweat. She’s shaking, trembling so badly that she can’t even open her mouth properly to answer, to reassure. She tries to say something, tries to tell Fleur that she’s fine, that she’ll be okay, that she just needs to go back to sleep…

Fleur looks at her and immediately she frowns, looking more than a little anxious herself. “‘ermione?” she asks carefully, taking a few steps towards the bed. “Are you alright?”

Whatever tenuous hold on her sanity Hermione had been able to maintain up until now shatters, and she crumples at once. Sobs overtake her without warning, huge, wracking things that shake her entire body with the force of her heaving. She cries so loudly, so suddenly, that she almost certainly would have woken the rest of the house, had it been inhabited.

“Shh,” Fleur tries to soothe her. She perches on Hermione’s bed at once, like it’s nothing, like she doesn’t even need to _think_ about it. She takes Hermione in her body, wraps her arms tight around her shoulders, her torso. Hermione is putty in her hands, malleable and bendable and completely unable to resist. “It is okay,” Fleur whispers in her hair as Hermione sinks into the embrace. “It is alright. _Je t’ai, ‘ermione. Je t’ai_.”

And Hermione shakes in her arms. She shakes and she shakes and Fleur keeps one hand in her hair and the other on her back, clenched tightly around her wand. The feel of it is reassuring. The wood is strong and unyielding; it does not bend in Fleur’s hold, no matter how hard she squeezes it.

Hermione is comforted by that fact. By the knowledge that she, too, can withstand tremendous force and not bend, not break.

It takes her a long time to fall back asleep. She’s not sure how long, exactly. Maybe an hour; maybe three.

But Fleur never leaves her side.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the ‘Mudblood’ scar-on-the-arm thing is only in the movies, not the books (and this story is based on the books), but I do actually really like the symbolism of Hermione being marked like that, and always have. So I’ve kept it in this story. That might bug some of you, and I totally understand that.
> 
> Also I realize that the May Day riots in London happened in, well, _May,_ but that didn’t really fit my timeline. So I hope you all will allow the slight historical error in favour of good old fashioned plot necessity.
> 
> Additionally, feel free to follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


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